


Wet Socks

by surlybobbies



Series: Keep Talking [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Teacher AU, i miss kevin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surlybobbies/pseuds/surlybobbies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Deancas Teacher AU]</p><p>Wet socks.  Dean is unfortunately all too familiar with the sensation, and so are the rest of the teachers at Mercy Heights High - and so it’s a surprise that no one’s thought to have mercy on the new guy and tell him that the parking lot tends to flood.</p><p>Dean, looking out from his second floor classroom window, winces sympathetically as he watches Castiel Novak sullenly slosh his way through the ankle-height water.  The new philosophy teacher’s displeasure is evident even at a distance.  </p><p>“Sorry, kids,” he says, shooting a look over his shoulder at the students eating lunch in his classroom, “Looks like Dr. Novak’s having a bad day.”</p><p>[crossposted to tumblr - surlybobbies]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet Socks

**Author's Note:**

> My new workplace floods, and this is the logical consequence of that.

Wet socks. Dean is unfortunately all too familiar with the sensation, and so are the rest of the teachers at Mercy Heights High - and so it’s a surprise that no one’s thought to have mercy on the new guy and tell him that the parking lot tends to flood.

Dean, looking out from his second floor classroom window, winces sympathetically as he watches Castiel Novak sullenly slosh his way through the ankle-height water. The new philosophy teacher’s displeasure is evident even at a distance. 

“Sorry, kids,” he says, shooting a look over his shoulder at the students eating lunch in his classroom, “Looks like Dr. Novak’s having a bad day.”

The students groan, and a sound like someone’s head hitting the desk is heard; Novak’s grump is already infamous, despite the new year having only just started two weeks prior.

“Mr. Winchester, can’t you do something? I’ve got SAT tutor in the afternoon, and his homework always takes forever when he’s irritated!”

Dean gives them a skeptical look before letting his gaze slide back to the figure outside with the undoubtedly wet socks. “Like I can convince him? Do it yourself.”

Novak is trying to pull up the collar of his trench coat over his head. Dean feels bad for the guy.

“He won’t listen to a student!” There’s a pause. “And besides. He likes you.”

Dean snorts. “Just because he smiled at me once - “

“Exactly!” Kevin cries, “He smiled at you! No one’s ever seen him do anything but scowl and spit fire! Fred says he growled at Mr. Singer once.”

Novak disappears from Dean’s view. He imagines the man peeling off the trench coat once he stops inside the school doors, maybe running a hand through his wet hair… undoing his tie… “I’m sure that didn’t happen,” Dean replies distractedly, turning away from the window. “Anyway, you just gotta know how to handle the guy. He needs a… a gentle touch.” _And a good lay._

_I can provide both._

He clears his throat. “But if it means so much to you, I can try.”

 

Right before lunch ends, Dean sends the students out of his room and swings by Novak’s class. He knocks on the door frame. “Dr. Novak?”

The man looks up from where he’s redoing his tie in front of his desk. His eyebrows fly up. “Mr. Winchester,” he says, sounding surprised. “Do you need something?”

Dean steps into the classroom. “Nah - just checking in to see how you’re doing. And, uh - it’s Dean.”

Novak’s lips form an O. Dean struggles not to stare. 

“That’s very kind of you…Dean,” Novak says, tilting his head. “And please, call me Cas.” He tightens the knot of his tie, but freezes when he catches Dean watching. He smooths the fabric down with one hand then says, “I - uh, I got caught in the rain. My clothes are mostly dry now, though.” He clears his throat. “Except for - “ He looks down to survey his feet, barefoot on the dingy tile.

Dean can barely look without wanting to heave. “Cas, the amount of shit these kids carry in on the bottom of their shoes… literal shit… and you’re walking around barefoot.”

Cas makes a contemplative noise. “You’re right, of course.” But he makes no move to do anything about it. 

Dean raises his eyebrows. Cas shrugs, nodding to the window sill, where two black socks rest in the barest amount of sunlight peeking through rain clouds. “My socks are very absorbent.”

“This is a nightmare,” Dean says, after a pause. “You’re going to get herpes or rabies or some shit. Stay here.”

He leaves before Cas can argue.

 

When he comes back, the bell has already rung and Cas’s class is just getting settled in their seats. Cas is still barefoot, standing in front of the whiteboard writing the agenda. Kevin sends a pleading look to Dean, which he acknowledges with an eyeroll. Silently, he walks up and drops a pair of black rain boots next to Cas’s legs.

Cas, with one hand still raised and holding a marker, squints at the boots. “I don’t understand.”

“For you,” Dean mumbles, acutely aware of 25 pairs of teenage eyes watching his interaction with the hot new teacher. “They’re new, so don’t worry about my feet germs crawling around in there.”

He doesn’t mention that he bought them with Cas in mind - that he’s been waiting for a rainy day since he met Cas at the first faculty meeting of the new school year and that when he saw these rain boots on sale he grabbed them up without a second thought because one day the hot nerdy PhD-holding teacher is going to need them and Dean is going to provide them.

He doesn’t say any of that, but a pointed throat-clearing from Kevin tells Dean that his crush is still pretty obvious.

Dean is so going to get him back for that. 

“You’re too kind,” Cas says, capping the marker. “But thank you.” He bends and slides his feet into the boots. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No need,” Dean says quickly, sure that a flush has spread up his neck and that despite the strict no-phones policy, the kids in the class have their phones out, recording each second of this painful interaction.

Cas straightens. He smiles. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he says, widening his eyes significantly. Dean feels his knees start to buckle. He gropes for something to hold and ends up with the whiteboard eraser. He presses his nails into the cheap styrofoam.

He manages a grin. “Sounds - yeah, we can do that.” Even though he has no idea what “that” is. 

He bobs his head once in goodbye and turns around to leave. He can see Kevin’s grin from the corner of his eye as he walks out of the classroom. It’s only later that he realizes he’s stolen Cas’s eraser.

 

Besides being five minutes late to his own class, Dean gets through the lesson easily - he’s a professional, thanks - but by the time the last period of the day rolls around, he’s antsy. Kevin has study hall with him, and Dean finds himself wondering how Cas fared without his eraser.

He doesn’t have long to find out: Kevin strolls in whistling merrily. It’s one of the first times Dean’s ever seen Kevin so relaxed; usually he seems on the verge of developing a nervous twitch. 

Dean leans back in his chair and feigns casual curiosity. “I take it my ploy worked?”

Kevin heaves his heavy bookbag onto a desk and smirks. “Yeah, your ‘ploy’ worked. When you left, he tried to get his lecture started but he kept losing his train of thought. He said he had a headache, then turned on a video instead. No homework, either.”

Interesting. Dean grins. “You owe me, Tran.”

The young man tugs three large textbooks out of his bookbag and sits down. “I think it might be the other way around, Mr. Winchester,” he says, returning the grin.

 

Cas corners him in the parking lot. It’s raining again, and Cas is wearing the rainboots. That ridiculous trench coat covers up the long lines of his figure, and Dean’s fingers twitch to remedy the problem. Somehow he manages to keep his hands at his side. 

“Dinner tonight?” is all Cas says, all rough and rumbly in a way that makes Dean’s toes curl in his matching boots. 

“Definitely,” Dean says, and before he even has a chance to cringe at how desperate he sounds, Cas is grinning predatorily. 

 

Later, when Cas has Dean held against his bedroom door, he says, “You stole my eraser.”

Dean tries to recapture Cas’s lips, but the man leans back, grinning. 

“Also, herpes and rabies aren’t transmitted through the feet.”

“Cas, please tell me you are not talking about this shit while your hand is down my pants.”

“I’m just correcting your inaccuracies,” Cas says, before the hand in Dean’s pants executes a move that makes Dean’s head fall back with a thump against the door.

“We are so going to regret this tomorrow,” Dean says, strangled, as Cas drops to his knees. His hands curl into the backs of Dean’s thighs.

“I guess I’ll have to work extra hard to make this worth the lack of sleep, then,” the man says, before slipping off Dean’s belt.

“Fuck.”

Yeah, he totally fucking owes Kevin Tran. It’s the last coherent thought he has.


End file.
